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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304217">red skies in mourning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejoyofbecoming/pseuds/thejoyofbecoming'>thejoyofbecoming</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>"i can make you feel bad for jonah magnus" challenge 2020, :'), Angst and Tragedy, Beholding, Canon Divergence, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Jonah Magnus, JonMartin (BG), LonelyEyes, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Pre-Season 5, Romantic Angst, Season 4 Spoilers, Short Chapters, The Eye, The Lonely - Freeform, jonah magnus is dramatic i don't know what you want from me, post-160, romantic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:16:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejoyofbecoming/pseuds/thejoyofbecoming</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>as jonah's best-laid plans finally come to fruition, he prepares to celebrate with his only constant.</p><p>but his only constant is dead.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Peter Lukas/James Wright, Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. hollow victory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this first chapter is best accompanied by shostakovich's jazz suite no.2: 6. waltz ii on repeat</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>the needle drops purposefully onto the record. a slight static fills the air.</p><p>elias bouchard waits.</p><p>no.</p><p>jonah magnus waits.</p><p>shostakovich creeps into the room, haltingly at first, then filling it with something lush and melancholy. he imagines a chill will follow soon after. peter never could resist a good waltz. not with jonah, at least.</p><p>it was unlike him to disappear into the Lonely for so long, unlike him not to seek resolution over their latest little spat. peter was much more likely to pout at sea, where he could at least feel a little shiver down his spine whenever jonah chose to check in on him. they both knew the Lonely was not built for Beholding. he must be feeling particularly tender after jonah’s latest conquest.</p><p>peter will get over it. peter will come 'round. peter always does.</p><p>jonah hums as the jazz suite begins to pick up, setting out two delicate glasses on the desk. the office is pristine, if not slightly utilitarian: old books line the walls floor to ceiling, save for the odd keepsake. the record player sits beside a small black and white photo of two young men standing before a vast ship, smiling, in their own ways. </p><p>“whiskey or champagne?” he muses to the air. peter must be playing hard to get again. “you do so love to brood over a stiff drink, but…”</p><p>he smirks widely as he Sees his Archivist's hands grasp the Statement that will seal their fates.</p><p>“...i rather think celebratory bubbly is in order.”</p><p>he pulls the bottle from the ice box, something old and expensive and french he’s been holding onto for some time. for this time, in fact. he uncorks it, humming louder now along with the waltz, giddy as it is morose, filling both glasses to excess before placing them dutifully on the desk.</p><p>he steadies himself against the old, sturdy chair as The Watcher’s Crown begins.</p><p>elias' lips move in tandem with jonah's words as his Archivist reads them, blue eyes closing as his true Eyes open and he is there with what remains of the man who so quaintly calls himself jonathan sims, watching his humanity slip away with every syllable of his Statement, his panic and fear sweeter to jonah than any champagne could ever be.</p><p>he feels the agony and ecstasy of reality bending around them, earth-shattering, and yet...quiet. </p><p>jonah Looks up at the sky.</p><p>and the sky Looks back.</p><p>“peter!” he shouts, Eyes turning back to the room, a joyous yip accompanied by the waltz’s crescendo. “peter, do you feel it? peter, i’ve <em> done </em>it, i’ve won, i’ve - “</p><p>the office is unchanged.</p><p>and he realizes, with quiet dread, that he cannot See peter lukas anywhere.</p><p>“peter,” jonah chides, but it is the whine of elias bouchard this time, a whine his previous forms would find unbecoming, a whine that is desperate and churlish and <em> needing </em>. “don’t be cross with me, peter, even your God is here now, and...peter, they all are, it’s...it’s...”</p><p>jonah Looks.</p><p>and Looks.</p><p>and Looks.</p><p>he peers as far as he can into the Lonely, its mists and pits more solid than ever. the harder he Looks, the more it appears to coalesce in uncharacteristic...hostility? resentment? </p><p><b> <em>B e h o l d i n g  i s  n o  l o n g e r  w e l c o m e</em> </b> <b>. </b></p><p>the thought comes to him unbidden. he retreats with a dutiful bow of his head. reverence where reverence is due, and all that. </p><p>instinctively, jonah’s Eyes fall onto his Archivist, whose eyes stream with tears as his own Eyes open wider in martin blackwood’s arms, lost deep in the throes of Beholding.</p><p>the truth floats to jonah effortlessly.</p><p>his Eyes snap shut.</p><p>jonah looks around the room. his knuckles grow white around the head of the threadbare chair that sits steadfastly before the desk. </p><p>he crosses to the small bar and deposits the bottle of champagne neatly into the ice box again. he seizes the decanter of whiskey tightly by the throat and moves deliberately to his seat behind the desk.</p><p>shostakovich blares mournfully around him, drowning out the roars and cries of newly born beasts and the screams of their victims.</p><p>jonah sits, slowly, painfully slowly.</p><p>“i did it, peter,” he breathes.</p><p>he takes a long draught of whiskey, staring at the empty chair across from him. he begins to count the loose threads but finds himself already Knowing their number.</p><p>as Beholding binds his Archivist tighter, jonah feels the memory pressing against him, feels himself Knowing without asking, feels himself Seeing without trying, because his God is here now, he has done well, better than all the others, it is here, they are all here, a writhing mass of dread and anguish, and he must Know them, Know them all, every inch, every line... </p><p>jonah magnus takes another swig from the decanter.</p><p>peter lukas is dead.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. like clockwork</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter is best accompanied by chopin's cello sonata in g minor, op.65: 3. largo on repeat</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>the grandfather clock at the other end of the office chimes eleven times. he rolls up his sleeves and sits behind his desk, the hum of the institute buzzing pleasantly beneath his soles. </p><p>eleven o'clock on fridays are for budget reviews. </p><p>the institute has been growing well, jonah notes to himself, blinking as the sound of horses outside overwhelms him for a moment, a memory of those earlier days rising unbidden. the buzzing beneath him becomes more concentrated and frenzied as his colleagues whisper excitedly to one another, theorizing over smirke’s most recent version of his list. he Sees himself in this same position at this same desk and this same job, but the line of his face is...different. the candles cast shadows across high cheekbones, shimmering against the premature streak of gray in his hair.</p><p>jonah Watches curiously as his first body rubs at aching temples before beginning to pour over budgets and Statements and letters and journals and</p><p>plump lips and familiar scruff press urgently at the back of his neck. </p><p>"peter," he says politely, ink pen continuing steadily across the page as the memory fades with the sudden sensation. the sound of cars replaces those of carriages, mechanical honks filling the streets instead of restless hooves. the room has grown colder despite the summer breeze beyond the window. </p><p>the lips linger a moment before pulling away. jonah's own lips twitch as the scraggly beard tickles across his neck. </p><p>"budgets?" </p><p>"budgets." </p><p>he feels the dip of the beard again as peter nods thoughtfully to himself. perhaps he'll get the man a new pocket watch for christmas. something waterproof, with a long chain. </p><p>jonah wonders how long it will take to lose this one at sea. </p><p>(<em>three days </em>, he thinks, and this time he does start a little at the spontaneous answer to his idle pondering - he did not Ask, he did not See, he simply...Knew? he files that away for future consideration.) </p><p>without looking up he Sees peter frown slightly as he watches jonah stiffen, spine straight, pen frozen mid-letter. he says nothing as he crosses to the office door and turns the lock before taking a seat opposite jonah at the desk. he glances at the relatively small stack of papers remaining, hope flitting across his face. </p><p>jonah resumes writing. </p><p>peter chews his lip thoughtfully as he settles in, chilly salt-laced air seeping into the room. he runs a thumb along the edge of jonah's desk for what feels like the hundredth time as the office window slowly frosts over. </p><p>they sit like that for some time, jonah moving methodically from one document to another as peter waits. jonah Watches him, hungrily drinking in the image of the man in front of him: hair tousled and blown about from months spent on the open sea, salt crystals clinging to his salt-and-pepper beard, his gray eyes soft and unfocused, framed by long lashes and dark circles. </p><p>an image deserving to be immortalized in marble. </p><p>"it's been ages," he says finally, voice professional, as he sets the pen down. "to what do i owe the pleasure?" </p><p>"james," peter admonishes softly. jonah blinks slowly, watching his current name form on those cherubic lips, but remains undeterred. peter had gone away, he reminds himself. peter did not say goodbye. peter did not leave a note. peter had <em> left </em>. </p><p><em> again </em>. </p><p>"have things been well here?" </p><p>"quite," jonah answers, his voice clipped as he casts his gaze over to the frost-coated window, though his Eyes remain locked on peter as if he could disappear again at any moment. </p><p>and he could. </p><p>peter winces slightly at the aloofness in his voice, and jonah feels a pang of regret. peter's eyes dance anxiously around the room, across rows and rows of books whose names he has already memorized from repetition, thinking of ways to buy time as he grasps for words he has never been able to find. </p><p>jonah decides to be helpful. </p><p>"how was your trip?" he asks lazily, as if the answer does not matter, as if he had not asked the same question dozens of times while peter sat opposite the desk with one leg draped over the other. as if he does not know these four words hold any significance to either of them. </p><p>peter lets out a breath he had been holding without realizing it. he steals a glance at jonah, who pretends to be involved with filing away these most recent departmental budgets, allowing the rugged sailor to gaze hungrily at the ruthless scholar before him. it’s only fair that they each get their fill after so long apart, he muses. </p><p>"...quiet," peter replies eventually, eyes still intent on the body of james wright. "it was quiet." </p><p>jonah reclines in his chair, acutely aware of the drone of the institute pulsing through him. there is nothing quiet about Beholding, about his everquest for Knowledge. the institute is not quiet. london is not quiet.</p><p>he meets peter's gaze at last. "nowhere else quiet you could have run off to, i suppose.”</p><p>peter raises an eyebrow. jonah smirks. electricity arcs between them. </p><p>"have you changed the locks?" </p><p>"as if it would matter." </p><p>"is that a yes?" </p><p>"do i look like a monster to you?" </p><p>“of course not.”</p><p>“of <em> course </em>not.”</p><p>they stare at each other. numbness creeps into jonah's hands, the Lonely's way of saying hello. Beholding rises up in his throat before he can stop it.</p><p>"did you think of me?" </p><p>peter goes very still, but does not flinch away from those piercing blue eyes. </p><p>"yes," he mumbles. there is something like an apology in his eyes, somewhere, hidden behind the fog. it has no shape, no words, but jonah does not need his God to find it, the little piece of peter lukas that is sorry for the way he is only because it could wound jonah. </p><p>has wounded jonah. </p><p>jonah crosses over to the phonograph, shuffling through a box of records. he takes a deep breath of sea air, and something like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. </p><p>“your beard needs a trim,” he remarks quietly. </p><p>the exasperated sigh brings a true smile to his face. </p><p>jonah selects the desired record and slides it delicately into place. he holds the needle between two fingers, watching the disc spin silently. </p><p>“you didn't look for me.”</p><p>“you didn't leave a note.”</p><p>“james…”</p><p>jonah lets the needle fall onto the record, and the dulcet tones of a cello fade into the room. he Watches peter wrestle with himself, wanting to go to jonah, wanting to apologize, wanting to hide, wanting forgiveness, wanting, wanting, wanting - </p><p>the clock chimes twelve times. </p><p>jonah makes his way slowly across the room. he slides one finger beneath peter’s chin, tilting it up so he faces him, their eyes locking together again. jonah cannot hold the hunger back this time, and peter’s lips part in stunned silence. </p><p>“leave a note next time, or i <em> will </em> have the locks changed the moment you’re gone.”</p><p>then he is in peter’s lap, their mouths finding each other at last. the body of james wright fits perfectly against the curve of peter’s shoulder, his collarbone, his thigh. strong arms envelop him, calloused hands on either side of his face. </p><p>they come up for air, foreheads pressed together, shirt buttons coming undone, their breath visible in the Lonely’s chill. </p><p>“a note,” peter breathes, his face flushed. “i can do that.”</p><p>“good.” jonah bites at peter’s neck, a little harder, causing peter to shiver beneath him. </p><p>“bastard,” peter smiles. </p><p>“yes,” jonah mutters, sinking his teeth in again, “you are.”</p><p>the sonata swells and the buzz of the institute fades away as the two men tangle themselves together again, hearts pounding, lips and tongues and teeth colliding, reunited in their quiet longing made realized.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it's been forever since i posted the first chapter, but i'm so happy to have the mental bandwidth to work on this again! </p><p>as always, i'd love to hear your thoughts &lt;3</p><p>q</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this was originally intended as a one-off ficlet, but i've found myself wondering too much about elias/jonah, about peter, about the relationship between our two favorite resident bastard husbands.</p><p>thanks for reading, and lend me your thoughts &lt;3</p><p>q</p></blockquote></div></div>
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